“What happened?” Benny asked thickly. “Was it lightning? A fallen tree?”
“The lightning hit the north watchtower. It collapsed and dumped Ramón Olivera over the fence. About a couple dozen zoms rushed at him when the tower fell. The two other guards must have been spooked by the storm. They panicked and opened the gate to try and rescue Ramón, and the zoms were all over them. Sally Parker—you know her, don’t you? Lives next door to Morgie? Well … she was killed.”
“No …”
“The other guards didn’t hear the screams, because of the thunder, and before they knew what was happening there were twenty or thirty zoms in the streets. You’d think after all this time, after everything that’s happened, people wouldn’t panic. But they did. Every idiot who could pull a trigger started shooting. Three people were shot, and two others were bitten. I think the gunshot victims will all make it, but as for the others …”
He let it hang. Everyone knew there was nothing that could be done to stop the infection from a zombie bite. Depending on the strength of each person’s immune system, they’d last a day or a week, but they were doomed. All victims would be taken to the Quiet House on the far side of town. They’d be given food and water and books. A priest or pastor or rabbi would come and sit with them. The doors would be locked, and everyone would wait. Chong said that bite victims often committed suicide and that a few were murdered by friends or family who didn’t want to see them suffer. Benny didn’t used to believe Chong. Now he knew his friend was probably right.
“Did they get all the zoms?”
“Yes,” said Tom. “Captain Strunk and his crew made sure of that. And Ramón will be fine. He broke his leg, and he has some burns, but there was so much wreckage around him that the dead couldn’t get to him.”
“Was anyone else bitten?”
“No. The zoms never got farther than the red zone. Strunk has forty people with rifles at the north gate while the crew repairs the fence.” He swore. “If I had a dime for every time I told the town council that we need a double line of fences …”
“Tom,” Benny said. “Some zoms must have gotten past you.”
“No. Not one.”
“But … Mr. Sacchetto … Zoms got to him, and he lives all the way over by the reservoir.”
Tom squatted down and rolled the dead artist over onto his back. He examined the man’s hands and wrists, lifted his shirt to look underneath. Tom’s lips were pursed and his eyes narrow and unreadable. Tom stood and walked quickly through the house, unlocked the back door, and stepped out onto the porch. Benny followed along and watched as Tom bent to examine the scuffed mud on the wood porch floor and the steps. The rain had washed most of it away, but there must have been enough left, because Tom made a disgusted sound and stared for a few seconds out into the darkness. Benny realized that the storm had eased, and there were no new screams, no additional gunshots.
Tom gently pushed Benny back inside and locked the door. Almost as an afterthought, he picked up the oak bar and slid it through the sleeves. Tom told Benny to wash the blood off his hands, and he gave him a bandage to wrap the finger with the torn nail. It hurt, but pain seemed to be such a small thing. All of this was done without words, and they walked back to the living room in silence and stood over the body. Benny could tell that Tom was working something out. His brother kept looking toward the back door and then down at Sacchetto.
“Damn,” Tom said softly, “I hate it when I’m right.”
Benny stood over Sacchetto, looking down at the body. He did not see the zombie. He saw the man who had painted the portrait of the Lost Girl. A man who had helped establish and build this town. A friend.
“What do you mean?” he asked Tom.
Tom studied his face for a moment and then nodded to himself, as if he’d just made a decision about whether it was safe to share his suspicions with Benny.